As painful as it is i have to wave my goodbye
Cry my very last tear as i abandon the memory of you and everyone around you
i cant keep whining about the things i couldve said and done diffrently
cant keep wishing for you to see me as a human being
everyhting keeps on moving with times arrows and i need too
i cant be the only one left behind to rot with sorrowful regrets
I know you dont care
i know you want me dead
you want to see me rot away
Cats play sad villion with my soul
it scraches every surface of my mourning heart
The melody of sorrowful memmories follows me everywhere i go
everytime a quiet night aproaches
i can hear the sad villion cats aproaching
snatching my soul
to play the same melody again and again
i know you want me to rot away
but i cant be the only one left behind
to rot with past regrets
i cry my very last tears tonight
i refuse to let any more tears stain the collar of my shirt
Copyright © Zhenya Tryp | Year Posted 2025
Beneath the soil, where light cannot reach,
Roots stretch out in secretive silence,
Unseen, they twist and curl,
Drawing life from the depths,
A quiet connection to the earth’s pulse.
They reach through layers of history,
Past the remnants of ages long gone,
Grasping fragments of ancient stories,
Whispering to the present through their touch.
Each root a vessel of memory,
A map of what has been,
A link between past and future,
Rooted in what remains unseen.
The ground holds them,
But they are not bound by it—
They move, shift and grow,
Pushing outward in search of sustenance,
Tasting the minerals that sustain life.
Roots do not ask for recognition;
They work in silence,
In the dark of the earth,
Drawing strength from a quiet world
Of decay and renewal,
Of life returning to itself.
In their depths, there is no rush—
Only the steady persistence of survival,
The slow, deliberate force of growth,
An unspoken patience woven in the dirt.
They resist the drought, the flood,
The disturbances above,
Drawing on an ancient resilience
That knows not of time,
But of cycles—
Of seasons that turn and turn again.
Roots are not mere anchors;
They are the very veins of life,
Lifeblood coursing through the earth,
Invisible, yet essential.
Without them, all would crumble—
No foundation to hold what rises.
They hold the tree, the flower,
They hold the earth itself,
And in their grasp, they remind us—
That growth is not always visible,
That strength is often found in the unseen,
In the quiet persistence beneath.
Copyright © zakk mcdonald | Year Posted 2025
Life is an Act
As life marches on swiftly
As clocks tick incessantly
We, the shadows of existence
Act out our scenes
On the glorious global stage.
Are we heroes, are we failures?
Does the audience applaud or do they jeer?
Or do they bawl?
Our acts can enthrall
Or it can decimate us.
Are we role models?
Are we unworthy actors?
Do the youth stare in awe
Or do they cringe in horror?
What lessons are passed down?
What values are cherished?
Culture is eroded.
Language undergoes change.
Morals, ethics and values are mouthed
Devoid of meaning and understanding.
Words are spoken without feeling.
Actions robotic and plastic.
Copyright © Yuvarasen Gounden | Year Posted 2025
I once read: "100 women trafficked and enslaved in a human egg farm-drugged, violated, and harvested. The world barely blinks." The words sat in my stomach, heavy, rotting. Not shocking, not new-just another line in the never-ending horror novel that we call reality. And I knew. I knew this was going to start happening. They don't want us to have rights over our bodies. They want our reproductive abilities, our blood, our flesh-ripped from us, sold, discarded.
They have done it before, they will do it again. They will keep doing it until the whole world is made of screaming, and even then, they will find a way to profit off the sound.
The most disgusting atrocities of this world always boil down to men. Men in suits, signing laws with hands that have never known suffering. Men in basements, clicking through images of stolen girlhood. Men in back alleys, in boardrooms, in fields where no one can hear you beg. Men who strip bodies like machines, who see wombs as factories, who think "birthgiver" and
"livestock" are only a breath apart. Care about this? Care about them too. Because the same hands that cage a woman are the ones that slit the throat of a calf, that force a pig into labor again and again until she collapses from exhaustion. The same system that makes bodies commodities, that calls it "farming" when it happens to animals and "controversy" when it happens to us. And the world will blink. Once. Twice.
Then turn away. It will take a revolution to stop it. A reckoning. A purge. A fear so deep it festers in their marrow, so they know—they know-that the world has changed and it will never be theirs again.
Copyright © Yanna Phawta | Year Posted 2025
her piggie died my
love denied
she cried I
cried
alone by her
side
honesty
decried
never should've
lied
perhaps death has
died
retry
retry
retry re-
try.
Copyright © Whatever Whoever | Year Posted 2024
You left 1884 behind,
1961 came you misused it
1972, you were doomed
1990, it seemed like joy but no
2016 your people smiled in their death
see the homeless, fatherless,
widows now bury their husbands,
heads rolling in roads that are gutters
People roasted like fish
yet it never mattered to you,
only drinks and women did
See the troubles your children face,
many bellies are swollen,
yet these bellies can't talk,
they fear execution
When shall you correct these
bad legacies?
The desert has visited the grass field
And the hungry mourners are fleeing
Into the hands of death.
Copyright © Wafor Nadine nkiesa | Year Posted 2025
Circumstantial evidence is weak, reticent statements left outta discovery; witnesses for the defense riskn purgery, cuz if they don't fear God, it's cuz they ain't heard of me! I relish the street's imperfections, being so absolutely obstreperous, cantankerous representation populating the office of the president. Miscalculation's evident, scary in its own, as we all kno it's not innocent till proven guilty anymore, but guilty till innocent. Billions of dollars squandered in an attempt to implement democracy, hypocrisy is presented openly, Hillary Clinton's treason that Supreme Court ruled not to be. Obviously the problem's not necessarily abroad, kids shooting up schools, might be the absence God. More broken homes. No longer are jobs offering benefits cuz poor planning and impatience played a part. Not sure how y'all feel when it come to these issues of the home front, cuz soldiers die everyday fighting for a winnable war wen years before, Sting's song told us there ain't one! Forgive me any if I've offended with this $10 Stylus pen in my hand, intention is shedding light on problems directly effecting the American Dream promised of this Land. And with that in mind, I got half a mind to turn the tide reverting to the Wild West times, epitomizing asynine! Might be logical to tote a nine, what with Dooms Day Preppers on T.V. and law enforcement officers committing homicides. Respite for all, astronomical proportions loom over us in fear of an A-bomb, convoluted ideals conducive to resurrection that's yet to be spoke of. Incredible is the Divine's unfathomable plain, the author of fate, attributed claim as Master of the Game, it's too whom you pray to in Jesus' name; G-O-D spells it all, the rainbow after the rain....
Copyright © Tyler Perkins | Year Posted 2025
they call it our independence
we were never dependent
they'll rape our only mothers
make us repent it
they'll sell our land
and bomb us when we tent on it
they'll condemn our freedom
after forcing us to shoot for it
morals are futile to the fed
to the hungry
well,
different story
—Tony O'manachain
Copyright © Tony OManachain | Year Posted 2024
Just another boring day.
The snowflakes drift away.
My question is sink or swim?
My light starts to dim.
I will keep my tunes on blast.
They are moving quick like my past.
Sometimes I come to question.
Am I making a good impression?
The memories linger in my head.
They are as soft as the silk on my bed.
The bright lights are flashing.
The battles in my mind are clashing.
Copyright © Tiara Grimes | Year Posted 2025
Over lush green mounds
Did stand many thriving towns
They did spread over vast azure pools
With help from shipbuilders' mighty tools
And mighty were the first to land on those shores
Valiant are they now in myth and lores
Strong were those who weilded weapons in battle
Stronger yet were those content with land and cattle
Amongst the trees so dark and tall
Were many bountiful victory feasts held in Fall
Many were the men who took comfort in the splendor of wine
And many more who took kindly to women most divine
But less yet took wonder to the riches of gold
These men were bestowed upon as kings mighty and bold
Great kingdoms did they build to abide
With many steers to raise and ride
Above in the heavens have many lights shone
As they still do though those times are gone
Copyright © Terry Sirup | Year Posted 2025
Oh!
To be loved by the poem,
The stanzas by the universe
Every word a star,
Period a blue sphere and
Lapse of Eternity.
Deep eyes of Nova
Staring at a mere me
On a sphere of petty weigh
In the silence of chaotic plane
A stare and it all comes to pause
The works of world,
Sun let to dry and
Moon an ashen rock,
Waves of blue expanse, winds and light
All are at halt.
I in a millionth of a million of continuing cosmo, stand still
For am I even deserving of being the poet of a poem by the universe?
Of forsaking my name at the end with a tilde?
This tranquility of a stare!
Why does it ache?
Yet so in order
In peace
Copyright © taha Mohammad | Year Posted 2025
Laboured breaths
with each strenuous uphill step,
taking in the ancient spirits
from an ancient world
when the earth was venerated.
Every stride taken prompts visions of
the Chaquis who journied this
rigorous passage.
In an empire of siwi, corn and orchids,
rock etched with lichen, sweltering heat and winds that bite;
a worn path of rugged stone and steps
rises then falls through the damp cloud forest
on Pachamama's curves
leading to primordial sacred sites.
Tasting the victory of reaching
that final destination evokes
emotions of gratitude, while honouring
a vanished civilization and those who perished
defending their ancesteral province.
Amid the ghostly essence of the terraced terrain
a lone condor circles above-
Copyright © susan silver | Year Posted 2025
a desert, devoid of fruition
barren, from years of neglect
praying for rain.
Then you washed over me, and I bloomed
Stifled and gasping for affection
wanton for connection, but never satisfied
drowning in desire.
You breathed into me, and I gasped devotion.
Lost, foraging for meaning, for purpose
a foreigner to love's labors
begging for solace.
Your star appeared, to nurture me home.
Now I am a mystery-even to myself
an enigma-filled mirror,
reflecting on who l was.
Copyright © Sherry Harvey Brown | Year Posted 2025
Faces may hide, the truth shall never go away,
No veil of lies can cover the light of right.
Gold can gloat but darkness gets in,
Because inside, the spirit shows its true power.
Evil, masked in false smiles, spreads its vilest odor,
And every bend in the road goodness has a mask.
Where accusations vent innocence is lost,
But lies can’t endure in dark shadows they protect.
A sifting breeze will shed the rest of everything,
Show their faces that used to live in the dark
Sleeper in the warren of the heart and whatever lies,
Truth will leave its imprint irrespective of the timelines.
So fear not
'If my poem touched your heart, please leave a comment ??”
or
“Your feedback is precious to me - please let me know how you liked it"
Copyright © Sayyed Seema Parveen | Year Posted 2025
A golden jewel,
A night dazzling crystal,
An expensive gem, valued capital,
A young star, strong and real.
A view on the glow,
A beam in darkened show,
Sturdy in an alarming blow,
Simple and firm like a bow.
A gem unique and rare,
Source still unclear,
With its blinding glare,
Dazzling but hard to bear.
The evolving gem,
The flaming color array—in rhythm,
A mile drift, dimming—is the new game,
Still—hope lingers, the prototype will reclaim.
Copyright © Samuel Muuo | Year Posted 2025
Hie thee now by warning taught
The path ahead be peril fraught
Each breath taken carried past
Each step taken counted last
To strive against such dangers rife
Tis better chance the falling knife
For what portends from grand emprise
By hazards wroth may be surmised
That loot awaits at ventures end
For those whom Deaths hand doth forfend
But take thee heed and be thee ware
In trust and faith place not a care
For tho the treasure sets ye free
Success breeds many enemies
Copyright © Rhan Henry | Year Posted 2025
What you don't know about writing
is that it doesn't know you,
until the two of you are willing
to stew a mess of your own -
brewing your blood's greatest enigmas
right down to its own bone marrow -
why not say hello,
at least?
Copyright © Rebecca Kiser | Year Posted 2025
Ugly Orange Shutters
It’s ½ past midnight when I ease my 1989 white Nissan Sentra into the long driveway of Horseshoe Rd. A decade past its prime but its engine is still strong. I’m late, but no one ever waits up. The lights are off, but the moonlight reflects an abnormal glow off the ugly orange shutters that line the front of the house like a crazed jack o' lantern’s smile piercing through the darkness of a July night. Not my Dad’s finest moment, and according to my mother, not his only mistake.
He got a deal on the paint back in a time when pumpkin paint still wasn’t a big seller. At a time before the street caught the disease they call divorce. A time when children played outside, neighbors knew each other, and everyone was too polite to say anything rude about our house looking so “festive”.
First, the people up the street caught the disease and people talked like it was an isolated incident. Then my parents discovered the sickness in their own home. Within five years ½ the street had fallen victim. No longer alive with children riding bikes and neighborhood block parties, single mothers locked their doors and went to work. Farms were sold and the land developed.
That’s when the mansions came like an abnormal growth. The first ones stuck out like a sore thumb. Then they spread. Now, our house sticks out like an abnormal growth. A reminder of a time when people were too polite to comment on ugly orange shutters and someone left the lights on.
Copyright © Rebecca Lake-Bonenfant | Year Posted 2025